


laying the crown at your feet

by okayantigone



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AU, Dark Victor, Gen, Pre-Canon Divergence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 19:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15444276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayantigone/pseuds/okayantigone
Summary: His name is Victor Nikiforov and he is a born winner. He made the goddamn sport. Every single proud proclamation from the Russians at every winter Olympic, and world championship was built thanks to his blood, sweat, and tears. His hair had gone white from the stress before his official debut, after he practiced fifteen hours a day, till he dropped. No one could imagine the sacrifices he’d made for the life he had now.He couldn’t just relinquish it with no payoff. He couldn’t afford to be just another name that would slowly fade away in people’s memory as he grew ahead in age. He needed one last win before that could happen. And unfortunately, he needed to be sure of it.Victor Nikiforov was a born winner. It was in his name.





	laying the crown at your feet

laying the crown at your feet

 

It’s a Thursday night, and he’s watching a talk show on channel now, where a pretty new hostess interviews a mid-tier politician and makes awkward jokes that don’t land, but the audience still laughs.

 

He’s showered away the ache from a day of practice, and he’s resting on the sofa in his robe, a glass of white bubbly wine in his hand. He rests his other hand on Makachin’s soft fur, rubbing behind the dog’s ears absent mindedly. His hair is in a tight braid along his scalp, and twisted in a bun to stay out of his face. The argan oil was really doing wonders for the dryness, and the new conditioner was helping his hairline stay the way it was meant to, so overall, he was satisfied.

 

He pays very little attention to the screen, letting the words wash over him, as he lets his eyes flutter closed. He wonders when he became the kind of person who would do this. He wonders if he really is a monster, like all the commenters used to say when he was a teenager.

 

He lets the bubbles wash away the bitterness to the back of his throat, as the credits flash across the screen, letting him know which clothing store is responsible for the pretty hostess’ dress, and the politician’s ill-fitting suit. Then the bright adverts blare at him.

 

Makachin whines, and nuzzles into him. Victor sets his wine down, and pulls his friend close, cuddling the warm creature, and enjoying his soft fur, and trusting wide eyes. No matter what, Makachin would still love him, and that’s a consolation he can live with.

 

He only half pays attention to the news, announcing the same mobsters parading as businessmen doing the same things they have always done while the police and the Kremlin avert their eyes. It’s the same old, same old. One of them got shot up, and he looks up briefly at the report, but it’s no one he knows, so he puts it out of mind. If he was really in danger, someone would have called him already.

 

The weather promises sleet and gray skies, which is nothing surprises. His heating bill had been ridiculous. Well, would have been ridiculous. If he was younger and still struggling. He’d barely batted a lash at it now. He could have moved out of the panel one bedroom ages ago if he wanted, to one of countless glass-paneled condos in a modern building, but he didn’t really see the point in uprooting Makachin. They were both comfortable here, they’d made history here. And he enjoyed driving the Porsche to the rink anyhow. It was almost the exact same shade of silver as his hair.

 

The sports news announcement makes him finally pay attention, squeezing Makachin a little tighter. His name is Victor Nikiforov and he is a born winner. He made the goddamn sport. Every single proud proclamation from the Russians at every winter Olympic, and world championship was built thanks to his blood, sweat, and tears. His hair had gone white from the stress before his official debut, after he practiced fifteen hours a day, till he dropped, walking two  hours each way in the snow and cold in the middle of winter to and from the rink. He’d slept in the changing room when it was too cold to walk.

No one could imagine the sacrifices he’d made for the life he had now, the costs – to him, and to his life. Yakov was his coach, and he didn’t even know the half of it. There was a time when all he’d had in the world was this same single bedroom, and Makachin – a skinny dirty little thing, and they were both starving all the same.

 

He couldn’t just relinquish it with no payoff. He couldn’t afford to be just another name that would slowly fade away in people’s memory as he grew ahead in age. He needed one last win before that could happen. And unfortunately, he needed to be sure of it.

 

Victor Nikiforov was a born winner. It was in his name.

 

He was a legacy. He’d build the sport. He would retire at the end of this year. He kept the thought under wraps. He’d join the coaching league – Cristophe would make for a fun pet project – there were new heights he could still reach. But Victor was done. He’d put his body through too much to continue past the season. And still. He’d be damned if he let some upstart in an Adidas tracksuit walk away after threatening to mar his legacy, attempting ot beat _his_ record. Not in the same season as him. Not in his lifetime. His pride couldn’t allow it. _He_ couldn’t allow it.

 

His name is Victor Nikiforov. He is a winner. The newscaster’s face darkens.

 

Yuri Plisetsky’s picture is on the screen. It’s not a picture Yura would have chosen for himself, but it does show his good side. It’s from the Junior Grand Prix Final’s kiss and cry. He looks less severely. It definitely inspires sympathy.

 

“… was brutally assaulted on his way from the St. Petersburg rink where he was training for the – “

 

They cut to live footage from the front of the hospital. Yuri’s got sponsorships, but he sends almost all he makes back to his family. Victor thinks, maybe he ought to help with the hospital bill. Yes. He’ll definitely do that. And send flowers too. And a fruit basket. Yura’s allergic to strawberries. He makes a note on his phone so he won’t forget. He won’t call Yura until the morning.

 

The hospital’s being mobbed by reporters, which is really disrespectful. Yura’s grandfather looks so devastated when he talks about Yura’s recovery. Unfortunately, even with intense physiotherapy, return to the sport doesn’t seem likely, what with both his knees shattered. He would never land a successful quad again – forget quads – he will probably never be able to skate again. Well. Not professionally. Certainly not competitively.

 

Victor drains his wine in a single gulp. It’s terribly unfortunate that it had to be like this. But he needs this final year to be perfect for him. He needs to win. And then, maybe, he’ll take that cute Japanese champion up on his offer, and push him through to the Grand Prix finals.

 

He scratches Makachin fondly, and gives him a kiss on the soft lovely head, switches the TV off, and heads to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this is the I, Tonya AU no one asked for. Ish.


End file.
